Ghosts
by gote
Summary: He's sorry that he has to come in here, dragging ghosts behind him. He's just so sick of being on his own with them. -Hannah&Blaise, written for the Quidditch Fanfiction Competition-


_**prompt:** Friendship - A pairing of your choice, write something that is a platonic friendship between the two characters. Any two characters are welcome (canon or not), however, there must be NO hint of romance between your two characters._

_**competition:** The Quidditch League Fanfiction Competition, round one._

_**thanks:** opaque-girl and __chik chik chikn for the beta help_

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**Ghosts**

Blaise sits on one bar stool, his loneliness on the other.

He doesn't have to wonder how it came to this. There'd come time when he'd had to make a choice between two sides and he'd chosen neither. He hadn't tattooed his regret to his skin, but rather engraved into the back of his eyelids so with every blink and at every night, it stares him down. He's left cursed to forever wander the friendless plane between two worlds, like possessing neither backbone nor malice is a doomable offense.

It's not as though you can say you're sorry, when there's no one left to say it to.

He wonders why he's drawn to these places of merriment and company, neither of which he's ever a part of. Maybe it's better to be an untouching, untouchable ghost in a warm, full room, rather than in his bare-floored London-city apartment, or the mansion in the French countryside with its large empty halls and his name on the deed. Or maybe it really isn't.

There's a girl working the bar whom Blaise had been at school with. Her name is Hannah Abbott and he doesn't like to look at her, nor she at him. But several times their eyes meet and hers are blue and ice cold and it hurts, not because she's anyone special, not to him, who'd never spared a moment's thought for her outside her immediate presence (except perhaps back in sixth year when the Death Eaters had killed her mother and that fifth year weed had laughed about it in the common room and Blaise had felt mad but not enough to look up from the book he was reading). No, it was simply this; Hannah Abbott had always had a smile for everybody.

Now, her frown is a fierce thing.

Blaise hasn't worn silver and green since it lined his Hogwarts robes, but when Hannah strides past him with her blonde head held purposely high like this is an act of rebellion in itself, defiance in a war that won't be over until they're all no longer there to carry it around inside of them, it's all he sees.

She's like this golden beacon of everything he isn't. Of hard work and resilience and morality and victory. He's more like the drink-stained, downtrodden floor, and the gaps in the brickwork no one would ever even think of to clean.

He knows what she's been through, what they've all been through, but knowing doesn't change a single thing. Blaise knows he has no right to be broken, but it still doesn't stop the fact he can't seem to pull himself together.

He's sorry that he has to come in here, dragging ghosts behind him, like a figure from a bad dream. He's just so sick of being on his own with them. He's been walking this lonely road but his feet are growing sore and his heart weary and if his smiles were a child's toy they'd be forgotten in an attic, covered in layers upon layers of dust.

From the other barmaid he orders a glass of butterbeer, like it could take him back to when he was fourteen and his world had yet to fall down around him.

The drink is warm. Not just in temperature, but in the feeling that spreads through his body even as it slides down his throat. It tastes like happiness.

The feeling is as foreign and jarring as a punch to the face and Blaise has to sit the drink down. With shaking hands he reaches into his pocket and draws some coins. He tosses them down onto the counter and he leaves. There's something itching at his eyes and it might be tears.

It's amazing that people used to like him. They even called him charming. But think about it, there's no depth to that word, is there? They must have seen through the thin veil of illusion, seen through to who was really there underneath.

He doesn't blame them for not liking what they see. He's had enough of himself too.

That night he tosses and turns, in bed with his regrets. How was he supposed to fight in a war, if he can't even finish a drink in a bar?

He's going to head back tomorrow. He's going to do this one thing. It won't stop stop him from despising himself, but it can't contribute anything more to his hate.

The morning dawns bright with possibility. Blaise thinks he may even buy an owl. He has no one to send letters too, but he likes the idea of company. He makes his plans. First, the Leaky Cauldron, where he shall drink his butterbeer, and then onto Diagon Alley to choose an owl. After then, who knows what?

He never gets far enough to find out. Wrapped so tightly in coats and scarves that he could be hiding, Blaise walks right on past the Leaky Cauldron.

He thought he heard laughter through the door.

Walking back the long way to his apartment, Blaise realises he can't get an owl, and not even because he isn't brave enough to make it to the store, but because if he does he may as well admit he'll never have a relationship with another human being ever again. All his childhood he had etiquette pounded into him, he was dressed up and paraded around. He could talk to politicians and celebrities, distant cousins and waiting staff. He could make them smile, make them pat him upon the head and sneak him sweets behind his mother's back. Now he can't even consider conversation without his stomach erupting in nervous butterflies.

Again and again Blaise is slammed in the face with his own weakness. That's his biggest weakness; his lack of strength. He's surprised he can even walk down these streets without being blown off his feet, he's so frail, so weak.

The winds kicks up leaves and a soggy newspaper and it slaps him the face.

But for a moment, it isn't the wind and it isn't junk, it's his mother's hand and his stinging face and she's saying, "Get out there. Talk to them." It isn't a happy memory, but neither is it sad. It just is.

It reminds him that he never did find the talking easy, and how he used to run and hide away. But he'd be dragged back out again. Forced to socialise until he could do it with something resembling ease.

Maybe that's all he needs; he could do it as a child, he can do it now. Right?

Blaise concentrates on this idea, knowing very well how hollow it really is. It's easier to consider this than what is really motivating him right now; the memory of someone who didn't do what was easy. Someone who didn't shy away, who faced their fear, who fought, who-

The story doesn't have a happy ending. He can't think on it, because it's then that he really shuts down.

Blaise loops back around, and pushes through the door before he even has a chance to change his mind.

He barely registers that it's only Hannah working the bar this morning, and that rather than working she's standing there chatting to Ginny Weasley, because when he sees them, it's another face he sees.

She looks the same as she did when she was seventeen. She'll always look that way.

He's woken the ghost of her memory. The weight of her is pulling him down, like she once lifted him up. He collapses on the nearest stool because he doesn't think his legs can hold his weight any longer.

"Customer, Hannah," calls a voice from the kitchen.

Blaise looks up at that, and the barmaid looks right at him.

Surprisingly, she doesn't look away. The Hufflepuff's got nerve.

"I'm not serving him," she says, her voice loud and firm.

Suddenly Blaise isn't sure why he's here. It'd all be so much better if he just went home, if he stayed out of all their lives. When he walks into the room it isn't just him, no, he brings a thousand things they're all better off forgetting.

"You'll do your job, that's what you'll do."

Don't serve me, don't serve me, it's okay, I'm not thirsty, I'll go home, it's better for everyone-

Then she's right there before him, with pink cheeks and unfriendly blue eyes. "What'll you have?"

"I- I- A- Uh-"

When Blaise was a kid he'd had a bad stutter. His mother had done everything she could to try to cure him of the embarrassing abnormality. It had taken the last-resort effort of sending him to a Muggle speech therapist for him to finally work through it.

Right now he feels like he's eight years old again. Subconsciously, his hand flits to his cheek.

_A butterbeer. One butterbeer, please._

He practices saying the words in his head until he's certain he has them right, but when he opens his mouth, it's not them that comes out. "I- I'm sorry." There's the raw edge of panic to his voice and enough history between them to convey that he isn't just apologising about his drink order. No, he is sorry for that, but he's sorry for so much more. He finds himself needing her to understand. She's practically a stranger, but he can't tell the one person he really wants to.

Something flickers in Hannah's eyes, an expression that Blaise can't quite read. He can barely breathe, the anxious feeling has entirely taken control of him. It's shutting down his body, his mind, leaving him powerless. He has to get out of there.

Then Hannah puts her hand on his. It's warm and no doubt intended to be comforting, but Blaise is all panicked and it doesn't help that he's never even _known_ comforting.

"Are you okay?" she asks, eyebrows crinkling together.

He nods but then shakes his head. He looks at the spot above her shoulder and he tells it, once again, that he's sorry.

He isn't sure whether she understands, or if it even matters if she does, when someone else intercepts.

"Zabini?"

It's Ginny Weasley, looking at him, addressing him by name, and sounding... what exactly? He can't tell.

"Blaise Zabini?"

He nods.

"I heard about what happened with Parvati..."

Her voice is all sympathy, and he can just tell she has no idea that she's ripping him open. It feels like someone's carved a hole into his chest and is reaching in to yank and twist at his heart. He has to close his eyes as the tidal wave of emotion he tries so hard to suppress washes over him and the only kind of reply he can manage is a nod. He's unsure what it's even trying to convey.

"Don't you remember, Hannah?" Ginny asks, looking at her friend and fellow DA member.

Hannah's face is impossible to read. "I remember."

Blaise knows exactly what she's thinking of.

This time he lets himself think of _her._ Not Hannah, not Ginny, but Parvati, the girl who'd stolen his heart and showed him the world. He thinks of her telling him _be brave_, like it was that easy, and he reopens his eyes.

"I'm sorry I didn't say yes when she asked," he says, "When it actually would have meant something. I know my words mean nothing now-"

"Blaise," says Hannah. Her voice is soft, but firm. "It's okay."

Blaise can't help but think she's only partly right. Who's to say how much it would have been worth? What it could have changed?

There's something about the solemness of Hannah's eyes as she surveys him, that shows she may have something more of an understanding. He wonders if she'll bring it up, and deeply hopes she won't.

He's more familiar with his regret than with his own reflection. He doesn't need a reminder, he lives with it every second of every day.

Hannah squeezes his hand, and he doesn't shy away. She has such an honest, trusting face. When she smiles, he believes in it, even if he can't quite return it.

"I would have joined you," he hears himself saying. "And I'm not just saying it because you won. I never supported them, I didn't believe in any of that."

"It was too dangerous," says Ginny, like she understands. "You were living with them, and they would have killed you if they'd known."

Even though she's right, it sounds all wrong. He shakes his head. "I know that, and at the time that's what I thought was important. But I was wrong. What did it matter if I survived?" He pauses, then the words rush out of his mouth. "They killed her."

A flash of hurt crosses Ginny's face. They've all got their own scars, and it doesn't take much to make them bleed. "They killed lots of people," she says, her face setting into stone.

"And thankfully he wasn't one of them," says Hannah, her natural kindness shining through. "We can't change the past, only be thankful for what we do have, and work for what we can have." She pauses. "Would you like a drink, Blaise? It's on the house."

Something feels different. It takes Blaise a moment to realise he might be smiling. "Thank you," he says, and means it. He can feel himself relaxing slightly. Even just saying all these, and hearing that, it's lifting the weight from his chest. "I'll have a butterbeer, please."

Hannah pours him the drink, and he notices that her hands are shaking. "Your words do mean something," she says suddenly. "I'm glad you still care, and- and- I'm sorry for your loss, and that I never said this sooner.

Blaise nods in acknowledgement. He tries to respond directly, but he can't find the words. He looks at Hannah and hopes his words convey enough. "I'm sorry too, both of you, for everyone you lost, and just... for everything."

Ginny nods, her brown eyes distant. It doesn't seem like she's in the room with them any longer.

"Thank you," says Hannah, with a small smile. She looks away. "She was my friend too."

"And mine," says Ginny, who must still be listening.

Hannah's overfilled the glass of butterbeer, and it drips down her hands, but she doesn't seem to notice. She sets the drink down in front of Blaise. "I've seen you here a lot," she says to him. "On your own."

Blaise doesn't want to tell her that it's because he has nowhere else to go. He doesn't need their pity, he doesn't need to burden them any more. He just nods, and looks away, and maybe that says enough.

Hannah looks at Ginny. "We're terrible friends."

Ginny blinks. "What do you mean?"

"We've been too busy worrying about ourselves to think of the people left behind. What do you think Parvati would think if she known he'd just been left?"

"I'm okay-" Blaise lies.

"No. She said she never blamed you, did you know that? And that she'd be there for you once it was all over, if you still wanted her."

It's everything Blaise ever needed to hear. He feels faint. "She did?"

Hannah nods. "Yes. And we should have tried to keep her promise, where she couldn't. We're not trying to replace her for you, nor have you replace her for us. I'm just saying we'll be here for you."

"Absolutely," says Ginny, sounding present again. She isn't just agreeing, she means it.

Blaise can't look at either of them. He's never known kindness like this, he surely doesn't deserve kindness like this. At least, that's how he's used to thinking, but somehow Hannah makes him feel like maybe he isn't entirely undeserving. He takes a sip of his drink. Somehow it tastes even better than it had the night before. There's an extra flavour he can detect. It tastes like hope, or maybe friendship.

"Friends?" says Hannah, holding out her hand.

Blaise sets the drink down and takes her hand. "Friends," he says, and this time he's sure he's smiling. They shake on it.

When Blaise leaves, he feels lighter. He has the vaguest feeling that he's forgotten something.

He doesn't realise it, but he's left some of his ghosts behind.

His apartment, when he reaches it, feels brighter. He opens the curtains, and browses the catalogues for a rug and some extra chairs, and remembers with excitement that garden down the road where he can pick fresh flowers.

Hannah and Neville are coming for dinner in a few night's time. For the first time in a long time, he has something to look forward too.

Sometimes you don't realise what you need, until you stumble upon it. Blaise needed a friend.


End file.
